September 18: Nocturne

Last night the Maine Birding list-serv posted several reports that a good nocturnal migration flight was in progress, so at about midnight I went outside to listen. There's just something really cool about hearing those high-pitched flight calls overhead in the darkness, knowing that there are clouds of birds up there making their way south. Migration restlessness, called zugunruhe--that undeniable, internal impulse to move south--pushes them onward. Invisible in the night, birds fly in fast flocks, trying to make as much distance as they can while winds are low and predators are few. These flocks can be so big that they show up on radar maps, big moving blobs on the screen referred to as "angels."

Some birders are so good they can identify what's up there just by hearing the birds' nocturnal call notes, which are often quite different from the sounds those birds make during the day. It is thought that they make these calls to keep the flock together, a way of saying, "I'm still here" to the other birds around them. Though I can't help but wonder if there isn't a little bit of uncontainable excitement mixed in, too: "Yay! We're all together and heading south again!"

I didn't hear more than a couple of chips from my yard because the rush of the river was so loud. But it was a beautiful night just to sit on the back step and enjoy the calm. The setting, waxing moon shone through the trees brighter than headlights. Jupiter too was large and bright, and with my binoculars I could pick out what I think were a few of its moons. The constellation Cassiopeia poised just above Jupiter, over my roof. I kept expecting to see a cat or a skunk wander through the yard. I wondered what I would hear or see if I threw down a tarp and spent the night in my sleeping bag back there. But I didn't. Eventually I went back inside where the lights were on, and the only thing visible in the dark windows was my own reflection. But as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep, I imagined the soft wingbeats of angels steadily passing over the house all night long.

Angels fly southward
tonight, passing overhead.
Big moon lights the way.

September 17: Cup of Tea

When I was 14, my grandparents took me on a trip to Scotland, home country of my grandmother's parents. We traveled around northern Scotland, spending a week on the Isle of Skye and two weeks making our way across the top of the country and down the eastern shore to Aberdeen (my great-grandparents' home city) and eventually Edinburgh. Given my age, I wasn't able to partake of Scottish ales or whiskey, so I think I missed out on the better aspects of Scottish cuisine. All I remember of the food was that the bed and breakfasts we stayed in often served tomatoes alongside the toast and eggs for breakfast, which I found kind of weird. And tea... I well remember tea.

Times change and I haven't been back since, so this may not hold true anymore, but 30 years ago tea time remained a very strong tradition. And I loved it. We quickly learned that you could judge a B and B by the quality of its tea offerings. The tea itself was always fine--even in early summer, there's nothing more bracing than a strong cup of tea after a day of driving miles of winding, sheep-cluttered country roads and tramping about ruined castles. But it was the sweets that I remember best. A good B and B would offer up several kinds of cookies, frosted petit fours, little candies from the local confectioner's, or even homemade scones with jam. A lesser place would give you Walker's shortbread--the kind offered for sale at all the tourist shops--right out of the tin. But even that was good. It seemed so civilized and comforting, to pause and take that time to all sit together for a little meal, of sorts, that would recharge you enough to make it through the rest of the day. And the days were long--higher latitudes near Summer Solstice meant that it stayed light until well past 10 p.m. So that tea helped.

Storm clouds are scudding over today, dragging a chilly breeze along with them. I'm sipping a mug of green tea with honey to warm my insides and keep me going for a few more hours at the end of a long work week, wishing I had a little treat to enjoy with my tea. I thought I had some chocolate stashed away in my desk, but no such luck--so I only have my distant memories of those long-ago Scottish tea treats to sustain me.

Warm memories, tea--
the small things that sustain us
as we live our lives.

September 16: Safe

On my short drive into town after work this evening, a squirrel dashed across the street just ahead of the tires on an oncoming truck. Although my car was some distance away when I observed this, I still instinctively braked as I watched the sequence of events unfold--sort of bracing myself for the possibility of a small disaster that never happened. On my way back home from the library, a chipmunk, tail held high, made its mad dash from one side of the street to the other. Safe, thankfully, and nowhere near my car.

I've noticed more than the usual amount of road-kill the past few weeks--squirrels, mostly, and some raccoons and skunks. I wonder if it's because the summer's young are grown and dispersing from their home territories, so more animals than usual (and more naive animals) are wandering around,  unknowingly putting themselves in front of our cars. In any case, it's always a relief to witness a safe crossing--one less life lost in a day.

Without knowing it
we too probably miss death
by seconds some days.

September 15: White Birches

Sometimes some ordinary thing catches my eye and suddenly stands out like it never did before. This evening as I left the office, grey rain clouds loomed behind the trees. But when I looked up to assess the likelihood of rain, I was instantly struck with the whiteness of the birch trunks before me. A small clump of White Birches loomed over the driveway against a dull backdrop of storm clouds. Something about the light, or maybe the contrast with the dirty-looking sky, made the birchbark glow with a pure white you don't normally see in nature. Most of the birches around the office and my house are Grey Birches, which are skinnier, more scraggly, and with less "clean" bark. These tall, healthy White Birches looked as if they were wrapped with paper, they were that white. Even my allergy-hazed eyes, through which I've been squinting at my computer screen all day with some difficulty, could register their very visible beauty. What, besides woodpeckers, might scribble on that paper?

Almost a mirage--
such straight, white birches glowing
against dark storm clouds.

I feel the impulse
to get out my crayons and
color that white bark.

September 14: Out There

There's a great, recent New Yorker blog post by Meredith Blake about a guy, John Morse, who puts up "roadside haiku" meant to look like those annoying signs you see posted at city intersections offering "get rich quick" job schemes and easy weight loss programs. Here's an example that's right on--subversive street art yet also street smart:

Build personal wealth
in the comfort of your home
Read to your children

Haiku must be in the air, because then a friend on Facebook posted this as his status yesterday:

Haikus are easy
but sometimes they don't make sense
Refrigerator

Along those lines, I've saved for years a full-page Roz Chast cartoon from the New Yorker entitled "Police Log from Suburbia Heights in Haiku Form." My favorite is Monday's entry:

Group of youths clustered
In front of Dunkin' Donuts.
Asked to leave and did.

Hard to follow what I've shared here with my own haiku, but here it is:

Some days are just packed
with moments of poetry.
Today: not so much.

September 13: Buddhist Chipmunk

My mother mentioned that a chipmunk liked to perch atop one of the stone statues of Buddha in her lawn. This was funny enough to imagine, but when we pulled into the driveway to drop her off, sure enough, there it was: a chipmunk on Buddha's head. Pesky as they are, chipmunks are endearing little rodents. This particular chipmunk was clearly familiar with my mother's ways, as it didn't budge from Buddha's head when she approached. Buddha's serene expression also remained unmoved. One might wonder if it's a spiritual chipmunk, at one everything, startled by nothing. Or perhaps the height of the statue makes for a good vantage point. Do chipmunks like a view? Curled atop Buddha, the chipmunk remained calm until we got within a couple of feet of it. Then it darted up into the rain gutter. When I tapped on the gutter, the chipmunk let forth a series of high-pitched noises that could only be considered invectives. It was clearly upset that we had interrupted its daily commune with higher powers.

On Buddha's stone head
chipmunk exudes compassion
for all seed-bearers.

September 12: Football Season

The time of year when the start of football season overlaps with the end of baseball season is often a challenge, as we find ourselves getting distracted from the Red Sox playoff run by the Patriots' return to action. But this year it's a bit different, with the Red Sox having no chance at the playoffs. And Tom Brady is back. So really not much of a toss-up over which gets my attention.

Unfortunately I wasn't near a tv until half-time for the opening season game vs. the Cincinnati Bengals. I got to see the score: 24 - 3 Patriots. And then I got to see the first play of the 3rd quarter before I had to go back to my table at the restaurant. If I had to see one play, it was a good one. Brandon Tate handily ran in a punt return for a touchdown. It was fist-pumping awesome. Those who remember George Carlin's classic monologue on baseball versus football can understand the mood shift this new sport season initiates. After summer's slow pastorale on the baseball diamond, we now get the rough-and-tumble action of football.

And to keep things interesting, this weekend also features the championship matches of the US Open for tennis. Last night we watched Kim Clijsters easily win the women's final; thanks to rain in New York, tomorrow night we'll get to root for Nadal in the men's final. I'm an unabashed sports fan, I guess--it's (almost) all good. This jumble of sports keeps me energized. Even yesterday's road race that the Land Trust hosted in Belfast was a small thrill for me to observe, because it's a sport that I used to be fairly good at myself. Also, I enjoy a sport in which women have a good shot at doing as well as men. And, of course, it's always fun to be able to cheer on friends who are competing at something. We're just like that.

Slow fade of baseball,
football season rushes in.
We're still so tribal.

September 11: Bounty

A friend spent today grinding, juicing, and otherwise preparing for long-term storage 122 pounds of tomatoes. When she and her husband came by to pick us up for dinner, she brought in a big basket laden with vegetables, including tomatoes looking like red pumpkins, beets, carrots, and a torpedo onion. This was a good year for gardens, and they're now reaping the harvest. I've also enjoyed several of their musk melons and watermelons this summer. And my freezer is still well stocked with strawberries picked several months back.

We went to dinner at a new little Asian restaurant in town, Long Grain, where I had exquisite steamed dumplings filled with a perfect combination of minced pork, shrimp, and seaweed. Despite the exotic ethnicity of the cuisine, the menu says they use produce from local farms whenever they can. After dinner, we got Round Top ice cream cones down the street. Thinking about all this locally grown and/or produced food makes me feel so grateful that not only do I not need to worry about where my next meal is coming from, but odds are it's going to be a good one. I am aware that for many, many people in this world that is not the case--which makes me feel that I should take care to especially enjoy that which I could so easily take for granted: good food and gifts from a friend.

Is it wrong to find
such comfort in tomatoes
on this tragic day?

September 10: Chill

Although I went to bed last night in my full-length pajama bottoms and fleece pajama top, I was freezing this morning when I woke up. My cat was curled close against me; it was hard to say who was huddling tighter against whom for warmth. For the first time in months, my husband had closed the bedroom window. As I dressed for work, I put on a wool sweater. For the first time in months, I made a cup of hot tea. Crows swirled around in the brisk breeze, black silhouettes against a dour white and grey sky. The maple tree outside my office window, the one that always turns a few weeks ahead of the other trees, already shows a few reddened leaves, as if red-faced in this chill. I'm sure we'll have more warm days ahead--we usually enjoy a lovely Indian summer--but these first ones in which we feel the season's shift breathing cool air down our necks, these can be a challenge.

Closed bedroom window
keeps out cold but mutes birdsong--
slow reveal of fall.

September 9: Titmouse Moment

Although I definitely play fast and loose with haiku as a form in my daily postings, their traditional role is to capture a moment. Amid a stressful day of challenging work, aggravating tasks, a frustrating meeting, and an ever-growing to-do list, there was one moment that made me pause and smile: while I was eating my lunch (at my desk), a titmouse landed on my window feeder, looked in with his beady black eyes, "dee dee'ed" really loudly, grabbed a seed, and flew off. I love those cheeky little birds. So the take-away message: if you have a job that raises your blood pressure, think about putting up a few feeders. Taking a little time to focus on the birds each day really helps. Sometimes those moments are the only thing about my work day that seems to hold any poetry whatsoever.

Thanks to a titmouse,
for a few moments my thoughts
left my desk, took wing.

Those who enjoy poetry and titmice might get a kick out of former US Poet Laureate Billy Collins' poem "Influence," in which he compares poet Marianne Moore to a titmouse (and Robert Penn Warren to a mourning dove). The first time I read it I was in tears. Read it and you'll understand. I think.

September 8: Asteroids

I was kind of thrilled to read on CNN.com this morning about our close encounter with two asteroids today. Apparently, however, it happens all the time. Our astronomers just haven't been paying close enough attention.

David Yeomans, manager of NASA's Near Earth Program (by which "near Earth" seems to be defined as within 28 million miles of our planet), says:  "We have only recently appreciated how many of these objects are in near Earth's space and [it's] best that we keep track of them and find them," he said. "I think this is Mother Nature's way of firing a shot over the bow and warning Earth-based astronomers that we have a lot of work to do." Although his metaphor seems a bit over the top--I just can't imagine Mother Nature (a.k.a. the solar system) cares all that much about how alert astronomers are on any planet--I find his perspective interesting. The space around Earth really is closer than we imagined to the old video game Asteroids, with shards and fragments of cosmic bits buzzing by us all the time. (Also, the Near Earth Program sounds like something that would be featured in an apocalyptic movie in which a giant asteroid is hurtling toward earth and only one scientist can save us all from certain doom... how come I learn about these cool-sounding jobs when it's too late to jump on a new career track?)

The two small chunks of space matter passed or were going to pass closer to Earth than the moon. The disappointing fact was that they're so small we couldn't see them without a decent telescope. They're so small, in fact, that their nearness won't have any discernible effect on us at all, unlike the moon's regular tugging of the tides and, some believe, our moods. One of the asteroids is about the size of our shed out back, the other, about the size of our house (which is described as a bungalow, so we're talking pretty darn small). For some reason, images from James and the Giant Peach are coming to mind...

Cosmic particles
unseen but passing close by--
can you feel their tug?


Bonus haiku, in the style of classic romantic Japanese poetry:


Is it the asteroid
passing close or is it you
tugging my heartstrings?